


What Difference Does it Make?

by dragonQuill907



Series: Smithslock Oneshots [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, because they actually talk about their emotions, might be a little ooc, that's it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has something to tell John.</p><p>Based on the song "What Difference Does it Make?" by The Smiths</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Difference Does it Make?

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm obsessed with both The Smiths and Sherlock, I'm combining the two to make... whatever this is. Each fic is a oneshot that is based on a song by The Smiths.
> 
> Requests for AUs (femlock, teenlock, soulmates, whatever) are welcome because these are going to be kind of random.
> 
> Also, feedback fuels me so leave kudos and maybe a comment? :)
> 
> Thanks to @EmmaLockWrites for being a great beta!

This fanfiction is based on the song "What Difference Does it Make?" by The Smiths. The lyrics are [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/smiths/whatdifferencedoesitmake.html) and the song itself is [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uzp5ocWvzck)

* * *

 

 

Sherlock had heard that confessing one’s attraction to the object of their affections would lessen the burden of dealing with it. It seemed like a flawed notion; surely, if Sherlock told John of the depth of his feelings for him, he’d never see the other man again.

There was the slight possibility that John returned Sherlock’s romantic feelings, though it didn’t seem likely, what with how adamantly the doctor defended his heterosexuality to anyone who assumed they were a couple. It stung worse every time, but Sherlock had had plenty of practice to keep it from showing on his face. Was Sherlock really so undesirable that the idea of being in a relationship with him made John so angry?

It was a question that plagued him every minute he spent in John’s company.

He had been denying it less and less since Mary had- Well. They had made it a rule not to talk about Mary. She had never come close to deserving John. Then again, neither had Sherlock. John deserved the world, not someone as cold and callous as the detective. He deserved better, and Sherlock was determined that John would get it, terrified of his flatmate leaving again but unwilling to sacrifice his love’s happiness for his own.

It had become increasingly difficult to keep his feelings for John locked away. After John had moved back into Baker Street, it had seemed like nothing had changed between the two of them. After a few weeks, however, this proved not to be the case. Sherlock was much more distracted by John, not having seen him for two years before returning to London to find himself replaced. It was more difficult to remain passive of John’s strength, his stability, his compassion and kindness. Sherlock couldn’t ignore the lingering touches, as few as they might have been, or the increasing frequency of John’s gaze on various parts of his body. The detective was half-convinced he was going mad and imagining it all, but then John would touch his wrist after inquiring about his health and Sherlock would be reminded that it was quite real.

The detective sighed from his position on the couch, curling into himself further. His stomach ached, but that was because he had neglected dinner once again in favor of laying out his feelings for his flatmate in his Mind Palace. It was late, but not too late to ask John to make him toast or warm up leftovers, but interacting directly with John could skew the results of his decision.

“What are you sulking about now?” John questioned, exhausted. “You had a case four days ago.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to be as ornery as possible. “I have another.”

“Really? Which one is it? You haven’t replied to any of the emails in your inbox,” John inquired further. “What are you meant to be solving? And how are you doing it from the couch?”

“I’d rather not say,” Sherlock replied. “It’s rather… delicate.”

“Delicate,” repeated John blandly.

“Yes,” Sherlock affirmed. “You’d find it tedious. It requires precision, a careful mind, an intimate knowledge of the subject. I’d rather not let you near it lest you muck it up somehow.”

John’s silence spoke more than his words ever could have.

The detective peeked over his shoulder to find John’s eyes glaring daggers into his own. His jaw was set, his lips pursed thin, and his hands gripping a mug of tea until his knuckles turned white.

“I  _ am _ a doctor, you know,” John said. “I am  _ intelligent _ . I might not be as observant as you, but that’s no reason to discredit my abilities just to feed your own ego.”

Sherlock turned back to face the couch. He closed his eyes, frowning slightly at John’s harsh words.

“Right. Okay, fine,” the doctor continued. “It’s not like I’m of any use.”

“You are essential to our cases, John. I’d simply rather not share this one with you.”

“Why?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “I’d rather not share, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Sherlock.”

The detective righted himself quickly, staring at John with narrow eyes. He swallowed nervously and shook his head. John remained unimpressed.

“It’s personal, John.”

“Oh.” The doctor’s eyes softened. “You know I’m here if you need anything.”

“I don’t.”

A sigh. “I know you don’t, Sherlock. You never need anyone.”

“John, don’t be so dramatic.”

“Because  _ I’m _ the one having a sulk and refusing help,” John spat. “I don’t know why I’m surprised when you don’t talk to me. It’s not as if you ever have.”

“ _ John _ , don’t…”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on unruly curls, struggling to ground himself. Anxiously, he dragged his teeth across his bottom lip. John stared at him warily; the detective could feel the doctor’s eyes on his trembling form.

“Sherlock? Shite, I’m sorry,” John apologized. “Just- Just ignore me, yeah? I’ll go out for a bit, let you clear your head. I’m sure I can pop over to Sarah’s or-”

“No!” Sherlock blurted, surprised at his own outburst. John’s eyes were wide. Sherlock feared the doctor would hear the rapid beating of his heart from across the room. “No. John, I- We have been through hell and high tide. I can surely rely on you. Yes?”

“Of course, Sherlock,” John agreed, licking his lips absently. “Yes. Anything. You know that. Tell me what’s wrong?”

“All men have secrets, and here is mine.” The detective took a deep breath, staring at his lap. “I’m in love with you, John.”

The answering silence twisted Sherlock’s stomach, and he glanced up at John, who was frozen in his chair, staring at him as if he’d grown another head.

“John?” he prompted softly. “I know you’re not interested, and I know that now you know the truth about me, you won’t see me anymore. But I can’t help it, John. I’ve tried.”

Sherlock stopped abruptly when he noticed John’s body stiffen. The taller man swallowed nervously and watched as John slowly clenched and unclenched his fists. The doctor breathed in through his nose, resolutely avoiding Sherlock’s gaze, and his heart shattered.

“John, what difference does it make?” he said, laughing weakly. “Really? I… It’s been years, now, and you haven’t noticed a thing. We’ll just go on as usual. Right?”

“This, Sherlock, is a new low,” John replied, his voice gravelly with emotion. “I know it’s obvious how I feel about you, but- but this. This is  _ not on. _ ”

Sherlock’s heart was about to fly out of his throat, and he nearly choked when he tried to speak. 

“John, what-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John demanded. Sherlock shut his mouth with a  _ click. _ “I can’t believe you. Well, actually, no.” The blond laughed bitterly, shaking his head dejectedly and jabbing a finger in Sherlock’s direction. “No, actually, I can. You told me yourself, Sherlock. You’re not interested in relationships. You’re married to your work. You’re not- You’re not  _ capable _ of it.”

The detective’s mouth dropped open, his heart sinking. “John, no. Please listen to me. I love you. I love you more than anything-”

“Stop it,” John ordered. “Just stop it, Sherlock. I know you’re lying to me. And you know what? I’m still fond of you. Even as you- I’d still leap into a flying fucking bullet for you, Sherlock Holmes, even as you’re bloody laughing at me.”

Sherlock held his head in his hands, tears burning the back of his eyes. He drew in a ragged breath.

“I should have told you sooner,” he whispered, crystal blue eyes staring at his feet. “I thought you’d be disgusted with me, but… I didn’t expect this. I could never expect you.”

“I’ve seen you do this before,” John said, voice sad and slow. “I’ve seen this before with Janine and Molly. Even Irene, at the end. You’re… You’re not.”

“But I am,” Sherlock whispered.

“You’re the one who wanted me to get married,” John hissed, and Sherlock nearly jerked back in surprise. They never mentioned Mary. Never. It was a rule, a condition of living in 221B. Even those who visited wouldn’t dare say her name.

“I wanted you to be happy, and it seemed like that meant being with Mary, so I pushed for it,” Sherlock explained. John clenched his jaw. “I stood on the wrong side of you on your wedding day, John. It was supposed to be ours.”

“Stop,” John said weakly. Sherlock didn’t stop.

“That was our waltz, John, and-”

“Stop this, Sherlock. Stop it now.”

“And I played it while you held her in your arms. I watched you pledge yourself to someone else. Do you know how much that hurts?”

“It should have been you, Goddamn it!” John shouted, scrambling to his feet. He paced across the living room, and only Sherlock’s eyes moved to watch his route. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you, I don’t know, confess your undying love any sooner than now?”

“I was never going to tell you,” Sherlock replied, and John froze. “I was never planning this. I had expected to die in unrequited love with my  _ straight  _ flatmate, John. Why didn’t  _ you _ say anything sooner?”

“‘John, while I’m flattered by your interest, you should know that I consider myself married to my work,’” the doctor recited.

“Oh,” said Sherlock. He thought his voice sounded much smaller than it should have.

“Oh,” replied John, his gaze burning a hole into the carpet at his feet.

There were several minutes of heavy silence before either of them spoke again.

“I really do love you,” Sherlock said quietly. “You can’t tell me I don’t- that I’m  _ unable _ to love you, John. It feels as if I am unable to stop.”

“Christ, I know,” John said, bringing a hand up to scrub at his face. “I’m sorry for even suggesting that, Sherlock. I am. And for… for doubting you, for believing you’d sooner lie to me than tell me how you felt.”

“I regret not having told you sooner,” Sherlock replied sincerely.

“And for marrying the wrong person,” John added. “I’m… well, you know. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry for letting you. But! No more apologies,” Sherlock replied, nodding his head once. “I’m too tired of our…  _ mistakes _ to put worth in them anymore. I’m so very tired.”

“If we say it too much, it’ll lose all its meaning,” John agreed. The two men stared at each other for a few moments before John said, “Sherlock? I’d very much like to kiss you now. Is that all right?”

Sherlock’s heart beat wildly against his ribcage as he caught sight of John’s questioning gaze. He licked his lips absently, greatly anticipating the rest of the night.

“Please,” he said, his voice hoarse with need.

John walked to Sherlock slowly, using two fingers to lift his chin into the light. The doctor let out a strangled noise and winced, his blue eyes nearly melting with compassion. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he couldn’t keep his gaze from John’s lips, licking his own once more.

“Oh, love, you’re crying,” John said softly, frowning and wiping stray tears away from Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m so sorry.”

“No more apologies,” Sherlock reminded breathlessly. “Please, John.”

The blond nodded, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands gently, as if he were the most precious element in the universe. Sherlock gasped as John’s lips met his, stiffening briefly before melting into the kiss. He stroked John’s arms cautiously, unsure of which boundaries were still in place. John kissed him sweetly, their lips moving in perfect tandem.

_ I love you,  _ they were saying.  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

It was all very chaste, really, until Sherlock’s bottom lip slotted perfectly between John’s, eliciting a gasp from both men. Sherlock whimpered as John’s tongue ran over his bottom lip before retreating coyly. He clenched his hands in John’s jumper and pulled him closer, closer,  _ closer, _ until he was pinned by John’s knees on either side of his thighs, John’s chest against his, John’s calloused hands on his face and in his hair. Sherlock wanted to drown in the sensation of being completely encompassed by  _ John. _ He groaned as the grip on his jaw shifted, encouraging him to part his lips further. He opened his mouth eagerly, savoring the taste and feel of John’s tongue against his own.

Sherlock licked into John’s mouth shyly, never having spent much time kissing. Fucking, yes, but never kissing - not for long, and never with anyone he’d cared about.

John didn’t have a particular taste. It was simply  _ John _ with a surprising hint of salt, and Sherlock decided that he rather liked it just as his doctor pulled away.

The detective frowned at the blinding smile on John’s face.

“You’re crying,” he noted, tilting his head and catching the light reflecting off John’s moist cheeks.

“You are too,” John replied. “I could taste it.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” whispered John, placing a delicate kiss on his forehead, his nose, his eyelids, and finally his mouth. “I love you.”

“I love you,” replied the detective, even though he knew those words would never be enough, would never encompass the true vastness of his feelings for the doctor. “And you love me.”

John grinned, letting out a delighted laugh. “Yes. I love you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled back, deciding that as much as he loathed repetition, he would never tire of hearing or saying those three words, not if they were from or for the man in front of him.

“I love you, John.”

_ I love you, I love you, I love you. _


End file.
